Wasteland
by Fierceawakening
Summary: This is an experiment. It's the first part/chapter of an AU, collaborative fic on TFW2005's message boards. No idea where it will go from here, but... have some brooding, post-apocalyptic Barricade. Any character you don't recognize is someone else's OC.


**This is an experiment. It's the first chapter of an AU, collaborative fic on TFW2005's message boards. There are so many writers signed up for this that I don't know where exactly it will go. But I liked some aspects of this, like the Bayverse apocalyptic aesthetic and the chance to take on a character that I haven't really explored before.**

**So here you have it. Unbetaed, unlabeled, unedited for the most part, first drop in a bucket I don't know the future of. Enjoy!**

Barricade sped through the blasted streets, his engines roaring as he raced through the remnants of the city. He hated this, and it only made him faster, as if the sooner he arrived, the sooner he could leave again.

It wouldn't be that way. It never was. Shockwave was too slagging patient for that. And Skywound was worse. Shockwave - _Lord Shockwave_, he reminded himself, his tires squealing in irritation he didn't bother to disguise - would stand around staring at everyone with that massive, glowing optic, saying only enough that the other Decepticons knew he'd heard them. Skywound would do all the talking. Too much talking, if anyone asked Barricade. Gliding around the war room discussing and analyzing while the rebels took advantage of his overprocessing to dig themselves deeper into whatever holes they were hiding in.

The broken pavement of the alien streets caught in his tires. It might once have been painful, but pain like that was an honor to bear, a reminder of Decepticon victory. His headlights shone as he swerved by what was left of one of the humans' "skyscrapers", a hollow, burned out frame built of reflective glass panels that once had shone like something in Crystal City back home. Now it was cracked, and reflected only burning. That was good. It took his mind off Shockwave, for the moment, and his endless, silent thinking.

It wasn't like Barricade didn't do plenty of thinking himself. You had to, to hunt these slaggers down. Autobots hadn't been built for war, not centuries ago, not at the beginning. But they'd learned to fight. And there wasn't a single Autobot protoformed in the last few centuries that hadn't learned to form weapons the very first time it took a form.

It was time for every Decepticon on this Primus-forsaken dirtball of a planet to face facts, even the goons that made up the main army: they weren't the only warriors now. And although they'd managed to conquer this planet and Lord Megatron himself had left Shockwave in charge, they'd given their enemies ample time to learn the fine art of what the organic scum that lived on this planet called "the guerrilla."

The center of the city burned. Undeterred, Barricade swerved toward the flames. In the center, a misshapen spire loomed above even the largest Decepticons, the ones who took up entire city blocks. Far too large to be made of even the largest human building, it had been constructed from the remnants of the humans' tallest skyscrapers and welded together like some sort of hellish metallic chimera, Earth's materials warped into a mockery of Cybertron's construction.

More cultured Decepticons might have called it beautiful, the best approximation they could make of home, rising to spear an alien sky. Barricade called it grotesque, when he bothered to call it anything.

Barricade transformed and walked inside, the welded-together plates of metal that served as the tower's doors sliding open for him. Makeshift as they were, they moved silently. Shockwave liked peace and quiet.

He walked toward one of the lifts in the entranceway, willing his spark to stop whirling so hard as he climbed onto the platform and it rose. The energy left over from his high-speed driving zipped through his circuits, making him jittery. But although he was no Shockwave, he was perfectly capable of calm when he needed it. You didn't root out prey by being nervous.

You did that by being thorough. By following the vermin into every hole it burrowed and blasting or burning it out.

And his enforcers should be doing that right now. And he should be doing that right now, not on his way to make some stupid, slagging report to commanders who were losing time overanalyzing everything.

He vented a loud snort as he left the lift, not giving a scrap who might have heard it.


End file.
